The Eye of the Hunter (76 page)

When they all stood facing him, Stoke gestured toward the dead, his hand clawlike.

“Léksete!”

Ten thousand voices moaned throughout the chamber groaning forth from slack jaws:
M‘alim…Kibr…Kûmandân’…Mîr
…

Now the Hlōks bolted from the room, slamming the door behind.

But the Ghûl stood fast, his blistered face split in a malevolent grin.

Stoke turned to Riatha. “See? This is what you will become. A soldier in my unconquerable army.

“Do you hear what they call me?”

Whispers and groans hissed throughout the chamber, the spectral voices of the dead ebbing and flowing as would a ghostly tide.

Aravan answered. “They speak the language of the desert, and name thee Master, Greatness, Commandant, Prince, and more. Yet heed, Stoke, thou art evil to delve into such matters, to visit such foul calamity upon these dead ones.”

“Pah!” replied Stoke above the hideous murmurings. “I have surpassed—”

Suddenly he broke off and whirled toward the corpses
“Hesukhádsete!”
he commanded, and the chamber groaned to silence.

Stoke turned once again to Aravan. “—I have surpassed the skills of my mentor, Ydral, he who showed me the pleasures of the harvest, who even now would like to know my secrets.

“But should I give such power to another? Nay, for it is mine and mine alone to wield as I will. What matter that he is my true father, for he would raise an army to rival my own.”

Aravan’s question came softly. “Where is this sire of thine?”

Stoke’s eyes widened, but ere he spoke—“Why?”
shouted Faeril. “Why do you need such a foul army? A legion of the cruelly slain.”

Stoke laughed and turned to the damman. “Because with it I can rule the world. Think of it, runt: Where I march, swift fear will run before me. Weapons will not harm those already slain. Adon’s Ban holds no sway over these soldiers, and with them I will conquer all.

“Pah, the Sultan of Hyree thinks I raise it for his use, my army of the dead. Yet he does not know what I truly intend.

“Let him fight his religious War, his
jihad
. I have bigger things in mind.”

Again Aravan repeated his question. “Stoke, I asked, where is this sire of thine? Where is Ydral?”

Baron Stoke vaguely gestured to the east, then his eyes filled with rage. “Fool! Am I my father’s keeper? I am not here to be questioned.”

Agitatedly he paced back and forth, looking at the captives as if they were chattel. Then a slow, cruel smile spread over his face. “Instead, I am here to indulge in my…simple pleasures.”

Now Stoke stepped before Gwylly. “And you, runt, you will suffer the most.

“Did you truly think that sunlight would kill me? Bah! I am a werecreature and will
never
die, for none is clever enough to kill me. And unless I am slain by silver pure, or by starsilver rare, or by fire, or by the fangs and claws of another such as I, I will live forever.

“Elves are not the only immortals.

“And as to your feeble attempt, I was in my present form in which the Sun can only cause me pain…and for that you will pay dearly.

“Heed, I suffer not Adon’s Ban, unlike my
jemadar
“—Stoke gestured at the Ghûl—“who will die in the light of day. See what even a distant dimness did to him, there where he is charred, scalded, burned. He was well back in the chamber when you opened the shutter, and only a faint glimmer of the light fell upon him, yet it seared as a fire until he fled beyond its reach.”

“Too bad,” replied Gwylly. “I should have waited until he was closer.”

Stoke murmured a word in Slûk and the Ghûl leapt forward and smashed a fist into Gwylly’s face, sending the tiny
Warrow crashing back against the stone wall and sprawling, to the floor.

Shrieking, “You bastard!” Faeril leapt toward the Ghûl, only to be jerked short by her chains.

[“Faeril, no,”] called Gwylly in Twyll, scrambling to his feet, blood runnelling from his nose. [“I am all right, and I would not have you hurt.”]

The corpse-white foe stepped back, his red gash of a mouth split in a vile grin. Again Stoke murmured something in Slûk, and the Ghûl, still leering, stepped to the nearby stone pillar and drew forth a key from a carven slot.

Stoke turned to Gwylly. “Obviously, fool, you are fond of the female runt, and now I see just how I will make you suffer.”

The Ghûl seized Faeril’s wrists and unlocked the manacles, the damman struggling and kicking to no effect as he dragged her among the still standing corpses and toward the center of the room.

“Stoke! You
skut
!” shouted Gwylly, wrenching at his chains. “Leave her alone, murderer!”

In grim silence Riatha and Aravan haled against their own fetters, but the iron yielded not.

Stoke smiled, turning to watch as the Ghûl lifted Faeril up by one arm, fastening it into a dangling manacle mid-chamber. Then he did likewise to her other wrist, the damman kicking and shrilling curse words in Twyll.

Stoke beckoned the Ghûl to him, then turned to the buccan. “Ah, fear not, runt, for I will let you watch from close by.”

With a terrible strength the Ghûl grabbed Gwylly by the jerkin, snarling at the Wee One who had caused him so much pain, slamming Gwylly back against the wall, stunning the buccan. Swiftly the Ghûl unlocked the shackles and dragged Gwylly to room center, hefting him up and chaining him dangling diagonally across from Faeril.

Behind, Riatha and Aravan began singing a deathsong, for there was nought they could do to prevent such, and so they sang a cant to Adon, asking that He receive the souls of these small ones unto His bosom.

As the Ghûl returned the key to its niche, Stoke stepped to the nearby instrument-cluttered table. And there he took up a vial filled with a blood-red liquid. Back he came to stand before Faeril, and he held the flask up to the lantern
light. “You must drink, for I would not have you swoon from pleasure. This elixir will keep you alert to the very end, magnifying the exquisite sensations I will visit upon you…as I did these others.” Stoke’s hand swept in a gesture toward the standing dead, their unblinking eyes open and staring, their jaws gaping in hideous jape. “Your comrades in arms.”

Stoke held the vial up to the damman, but she turned her head aside, clamping her lips shut.

“What? You do not trust me? Why, this is not poison…see.” Stoke put the flask to his own lips and drank a swallow. “No more than a gulp is needed.”

Again he held it up to Faeril, but she jerked her face aside.

Stoke motioned to the Ghûl, and he held the damman while the Baron forced liquid into her, as Gwylly shrieked in hatred, swinging on his chains, kicking out, trying to reach them, to no avail.

They turned to the buccan, and the Ghûl doubled his fist and slammed it into Gwylly’s gut, driving the air from him, stunning the Wee One with pain, Stoke quickly pouring the liquid in the buccan’s open mouth, forcing him to swallow.

Now the Baron stepped again to the table, setting down the flask. And then he took up the golden stake, some three inches in diameter and thirty inches long it was, tapering to a blunt point on one end, four blades set thereon, other razor-thin triangular steel blades glittering down the shank, bloodstones embedded here and there, the shaft butted against a polished steel plate on the opposite end.

Stoke stepped before Gwylly, the buccan yet gasping from the blow to his stomach. “How will I make you suffer, runt? Merely by allowing you to look and listen as I tend to your sweetling.”

Stoke turned and moved to Faeril, his voice soft and gentle, his cruel harshness submerged. “Heed, my lovely. First I will remove your clothing so that I may see your fair skin…then I will remove that also, starting at your feet.”

Her eyes widening in terror, her heart hammering, feet flailing, Faeril struggled against her fetters, chains clanking as she jerked to no avail.

Stoke smiled at the effect his words were having, and he said solicitously, “Oh, fear not, the elixir you drank will not only heighten your senses so that it will be exquisite beyond
your wildest imaginings, but you will remain aware throughout and feel every excruciating moment.”

Now Faeril began groaning in horror, and behind, Gwylly shouted in rage, while against the wall, Aravan and Riatha sang the deathsong.

Stoke raised his voice to be heard. “And when I have taken your skin from you”—he held up the hideous shaft, turning it in the light, gold gleaming, steel glinting—”
this
will be your
next
reward.”

Laughing wildly, Stoke stepped back and set the stake to the floor where Faeril could see it, the instrument resting on its buttplate, the horrid bladed point stabbing upward, razors glittering.

Then the Baron took a swift stride to the table and seized a thin-bladed knife, coming back to Faeril. Motioning for the Ghûl to grasp her kicking legs, Stoke wrenched her boots from her and flung them aside. His hands trembling with eagerness, he set the blade in the shrieking damman’s clothes, slicing upward, rending the cloth from her.

Soon Faeril was stripped naked, and Stoke turned to Gwylly. “Now, runt, experience the pleasure of seeing your loved one die an agonizing death.”

Gwylly closed his eyes and turned his face upward, refusing to look.

And just as Stoke set his razor-sharp knife to the sole of Faeril’s foot, from the hallway came a commotion, and inward darted three Rūcks, slamming the door behind.

Gwylly opened his eyes, looking upward, his gaze flying wide.

Angered, Stoke whirled, shouting invectives in Slûk. But his voice was lost beneath a deafening roar—

“RRRAAAWWWW!”

—and the door was shattered by a massive blow, the panel crashing inward, smashing down upon the Rūcks, and atop the wreckage stood a huge beast.

The Bear had come to call.

* * *

Stoke whirled about and snarled to the standing corpses,
“Ekeî eisìn hoi polémioi hoi emoí!”

Corpses oriented upon the Bear, unblinking eyes staring. Others turned toward Riatha and Aravan. And yet others wheeled in the direction of Faeril and Gwylly.

“Faeril! Faeril!” shouted Gwylly, climbing up his right-hand chain.

The damman looked at her buccaran, and then overhead. Then she, too, began hoisting herself upward, toward the beam holding the hooks anchoring her chains.

“Thanatósete autoús!”
shouted Stoke.

The ghostly howl of ten thousand ghastly voices fading in and out of gaping jaws, forward trod the ranks of the undead, scimitars and tulwars and cudgels upraised, the slain coming to kill the Bear, to kill the Elves, to kill the Warrows.

The Bear knew these two-legs were not
Urwa
. Still they challenged him! And roaring in rage he charged into the shuffling undead, his great claws sweeping left and right, rending and smashing and battering.

Gwylly fetched up against the wooden beam, and reaching over, he slipped the topmost link of his left-hand chain up to the tip of its anchoring hook, and jerking and jerking, he wrenched it through the gap.

He looked over just as Faeril came to her beam. Grim determination reflected in her face. She glanced at him and said, “Gwylly, get the key and free Aravan and Riatha. I will get our weapons.”

And below, the Bear roared and slashed the ranks of the undead, slamming them backwards, hammering them to the floor, great claws gashing their cadaverous flesh in devastating blows that would slay the living. But these soldiers were already dead, and so they rose up to attack again from wherever they had been whelmed.

And the howling dead came upon Aravan and Riatha, the Elves limited by the chains embedded in the wall. Even so, with a turning, thrusting kick, Riatha slammed her heel against the knee joint of a shuffling corpse, the leg breaking with a sharp
crack!
The Elfess snatched free the tulwar from the fallen undead, and with a chopping hack she decapitated the creature, then spun in time to parry a strike whistling at her.

Nearby, Aravan at the last instant stepped aside and let a massive blow rush past, seizing the corpse’s arm at the wrist and breaking the elbow across his knee, wrenching loose the cudgel from the grip of the dead one. The Elf hammered the iron bar into the skull of another of the undead, the cranium smashing like a rotten egg.

And in room center, a dark shimmering came upon Baron Stoke, his shape altering, changing, dropping down to all fours, coalescing into a new shape, and where he had been now stood a huge black Vulg, virulent fangs adrip.

Above, Gwylly grasped an adjacent chain, taking the strain from his own right-hand fetter, and he hoisted the topmost link to the tip of the anchoring hook and jerked it loose as well.

Eight-foot chains dangling from his manacled wrists, the buccan was now free. But below stood undead soldiers, ghostly channelled voices keening, weapons in hand.

As the Vulg charged to battle the Bear, Gwylly slid partway down the chain he grasped and, swinging, managed to reach another chain, the undead shuffling after. Again Gwylly swung, building up momentum, and at the height of his arc he released his hold, flying through the air, hurtling out and down, crashing to the stone floor. He struck hard and rolled, pain shooting throughout his entire body, the effect of the elixir hideously magnifying the impact. As he leapt to his feet, intense agony flashed up his left leg, his mind screaming in torment. Hobbling, each step harrowing torture, through tear-filled eyes Gwylly glanced back and up at Faeril, the damman even now beginning her own descent to the open floor below. Although the corpses had followed him, some now began to swing about, shuffling toward his dammia.

Standing, the Bear slammed a whelming blow against the skull of the great black Vulg, hammering the leaping beast aside, for he had fought
this
Urwa long past and it had nearly slain him. Roaring a challenge and ignoring the slashing tulwars and scimitars and pounding cudgels, the Bear charged toward the downed Vulg, knowing that this black four-legs was his enemy true.

Riatha hacked gaping wounds into the undead soldiers, yet they came shuffling forward regardless, a headless corpse now stumbling among them, striking out at random. The Elfess knew that the only way to stop them was to cut their hands and arms from them so that they could not grasp weapons; cut their legs from them so that they could not walk; cut their heads from them so that they could not see. And she set to this butchery, knowing that in the end they would overwhelm her, for she was chained to a wall.